


Intercession of Saints

by lirulin



Series: Intercession [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe, Child Inquisitor, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Coercion, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gen, Guilt, Loss of Faith, Loss of Parent(s), Loving Parent(s), Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Neurological Disorders, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, POV Child, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Survivor Guilt, implied infanticide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sole survivor of the Conclave is a very young Dalish girl. Both the Right and Left hands of the Divine are drawn to protect her but, in the wake of the terrible disaster that claimed the Divine and split the sky, with the only means to close the rifts in her hand, they are forced to put this child in danger to save Thedas. Despite their best efforts, tales of her survival and power spread and, in response, a schism divides the Chantry. Unfortunately, the only one with the knowledge to resolve these issues is the girl. She's barely old enough to hold a cohesive conversation, particularly given her trauma and grief, and must rely on Cassandra and Leliana entirely, inadvertently forcing them to become surrogate parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Left Hand

She stumbled as her toes caught on the edge of her dress. The fabric twisted and a seam near the bottom popped open under her weight. Her shoulders pulled down sharply as she mangled her dress and she fell, tumbled forward and took the rocky ground hard, scraping her knees and shins terribly. She scrambled up, kicking gravel frantically as she clawed back onto her feet and into a run. Her knees burned, just like her feet. It hurt, it hurt so much, and her face screwed up tight but she didn't stop. Blind fear made her run; she was so scared, so very scared, and she didn't know where to go. She had to find somewhere, some place safe, some place to hide, but the ground was sharp and it hurt her feet. Everything hurt; everything was sharp. 

It was hard to breathe and her head pounded. She started crying and it was hard to see, everything was blurry. Panic gripped her, even through her terror, and she hiccupped desperately as she fought to breathe. Her head felt light and her chest hurt; she had to run, she had to get away. The front of her dress was too long; Mamae told her. She had to be careful, that was what Mamae said. It was hard to run and she couldn't see and her feet were slippery. Her foot caught the hem of her dress again and this time the fabric tore. Thread snapped easily, quickly, but the fabric was thicker. She heard it, felt it as it pulled her down with force. She'd been running, as fast as she could, just like Mamae said. She didn't even feel it, when her tangled foot slipped and she crashed to her knees, when the whole world arced around her and her head struck the charred stone.

That was how the scouts found her, unconscious and alone. She was the lone survivor of the disaster that had destroyed the Temple of Sacred, that had cost thousands of lives and wiped out Conclave.

The scouts came running up after her, charging at full speed. They weren't slow but there were few grown men who could overtake a frightened, fleeing, panicked child. She'd cut past them with a nimbleness and speed that was staggering; to their eyes she'd been little more than a blur of limbs and strange shadow. They'd believed she was a demon, something that escaped the from the nightmare beyond the Breach while they were dazzled by the lady of light, and they'd chased after her to slaughter the demon before it could escape down the mountain. The tear in the sky loomed, great and terrible, gradually ripping the world asunder. They had no reason to expect she was anything but a creature, the first monster of many, the vanguard of the end times. However, as they ran through the jagged rocks and ruins of the temple, as they came upon that little shape, splayed at awful angles on the ground, their aggression felt obscene. 

They'd drawn their swords to chase down a little girl. 

The scouts lowered their weapons by varying degrees. They were confused, bewildered, and on edge, torn between the surreal awe of what they'd just seen and the dreadful reality of what they were seeing now. One of the scouts abandoned his sword altogether, cast it aside and hastily knelt to examine the fallen girl. His hands were uncertain, though, and they lingered in the air above her, trying to decide what to do. They were supposed to be cautious...but this demanded immediate action, didn't it? 

" _Maker_ , she's just a babe," he breathed and, with a delicacy that was not in line with the heavy armor he currently wore, nor the devastation around them, he cupped her small shoulder in his hand and turned her over. Her head lolled, loose and limp as only a young child could be, and he hastily moved to catch it, to keep it from knocking against the remains of the stone floor. She was an elf. Her face was slack, far too still to be sleeping, and a bruise the size of _his_ fist bloomed across her forehead and up, beneath her hair. She'd split her lip on the stone and cracked her nose hard enough that blood was already dripping steadily from one nostril. He moved to press a thumb against her eyelid, to shift it up, to check how hard she'd hit the ground, and the others looked on with growing unease. 

Her hands, balled into tiny, white-knuckled fists, fell open as he lifted her up. When the fingers of her left hand unfurled a cracking sensation crawled through the air. The scout opened her eye, tried to shade her pupil, to make it respond, but received no response. Her blank, unconscious stare was still as death, the twisting crackle in the air, however, changed as he moved her. He shook her shoulder, patted her cheek, and tried to draw out some reaction, any reaction beyond her weak breathing and a heartbeat too delicate for him to find. The crawling power gathered, mindlessly, and pooled in the air until it sparked and jumped across their skin. It reached some tipping point, as he smoothed back her hair and gently tested the lump on her head, and a bleary, bright green light poured from the gash in her palm. He didn't drop her head as he recoiled, didn't fling her down as though she were already an abomination, but it was a near thing. The scouts at his side were less restrained and, all at once, their swords were readied again. 

"Fetch Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale." The scout on the ground moved carefully, but with haste, and set the girl down again. The mark guttered, its brackish light thick and heady, but it didn't go out as he released her. Whether that was a good or a bad sign, it was impossible to say--and it was beyond his rank. He intended to leave decisions of this magnitude to the Right and Left hands of the Divine. This was more than bizarre, this child and the woman in the rift, it was all beyond them. The bent scout retrieved his weapon as he stood, as he moved from the little body on the ground, and felt less shame than he should have as he raised his blade again.

It was the Left Hand of the Divine that came to claim the survivor. The camps below the Temple's ruins raged; the destruction of the Conclave had thrown them into utter chaos. Soldiers, Chantry officials, mages, and templars roiled at the base of the mountain, tension drawn far beyond the breaking point. The remnants of the delegations, those that hadn't been destroyed in the blast, that hadn't scattered immediately afterward, were all too eager to tear into one another. In Divine Justinia's absence, her Right and Left Hands were all that held the conflict at bay, their authority given nearly apocalyptic weight beneath the crack in the sky. Sister Nightingale moved like a storm, tore through anything and everything that stood in her way, no matter the faction. Her agents moved obviously and openly in the wake of the explosion and their numbers, their variety and coordination, were more than intimidating. When she moved through a crowd, there was a perpetual sense that her agents were closing in and, because of that looming threat, none had yet risked crossing her.

She moved through the ruins with grace and power, strong and unafraid, even directly beneath the gaping hole that split the sky. Behind her, a full compliment of archers, or perhaps assassins , trailed her every step. When she came upon them, her presence carried a very specific sort of dread with it, but it also granted them a measure of relief they hadn't known they needed. The scouts left the scene as quickly as they were able, dismissed and tracked by two of her archers as they fled. The only people who witnessed the look of horror, of pity that broke the Nightingale's countenance were sworn to her service. If they heard her quiet plea to the Maker as she drew the child up, it was never mentioned in any report.

The hole in the sky twisted and frayed and Leliana watched the light in the girl's palm beat in time with it. Whatever it was, this magic, it was linked to the Breach. This girl was weak and, despite her lack of magical talent, even Leliana could feel the energy leaking from that wound. She was hemorrhaging magic, this girl, and her health was hanging on a thread. Leliana took the path at a jog and broke, very swiftly, into a run. She all but abandoned her agents once they reached the valley that cradled the road, the lake, and the village beyond. As they reached the edges of the camps she broke into a sprint and, despite the quality of their training, they could not keep pace. Leliana had always been the sort of assassin who specialized in speed, she had few agents who could outpace her. It took a little effort to weave through the loitering, incised crowds, but their density increased as she continued down the road. When her grace and dexterity failed her and she was forced to slow, she had no qualms about turning her shoulder and forcing her way through. She knocked a warrior down, sending them sprawling into a party of dwarves, likely broke a mage's arm, and nearly toppled one of the scattered Tal-Vashoth bodyguards as she ran. Her weaving path was less effort but this was faster and she cut through the crowd like an arrow. In her wake, her agents quickly and silently quelled any potential retribution that might've come from her blunt haste. 

She was being obvious, more than obvious, and it grated on her nerves like shards of glass grinding against her neck. She was drawing all manner of attention as she made for the bridge to Haven. She was exposed, her activities on grand display, and had no way to mask either what she was doing or the light in the girl's hand. Unfortunately, stealth, even a woefully meager variety, required time that she didn't dare risk. She'd felt it beneath the tear in the sky, the energy that was converging, and she felt it as it throbbed in this girl's limbs. At best, she was running to save this child's life...at worst, something terrible was going to happen and if she truly wanted to save this girl, the sole survivor of the Conclave, she had to run faster.

Her deference to speed was a wise decision, in the end. Her agents were far behind, lost to crowds and distance, but in mere minutes Leliana had nearly arrived at the fortifications of Haven. As she approached the gatehouse the mountain beneath her shuddered. The ground rocked below her feet, brittle and frozen, and sky churned above. The wound in the sky yawned wide and, through the maelstrom, she could make out the distant shapes of floating rock. She recognized the sight immediately. Her own memory was far hazier than what she saw now, but the similarities were too great to ignore. The bolt of fear that dashed through her renewed her sense of urgency. The girl in her arms was pale, the rise and fall of her chest entirely imperceptible. At once, despite her how swift she was, Leliana knew that this girl would not survive the remaining distance to Haven. Her chest was heaving as she came to a dead halt on the gatehouse bridge. Without time for conscious thought, let alone the weighing of options, her arm snapped out and she grabbed the nearest mage. 

Elven, apostate, startled, no apparent scarring or lingering discoloration in his face--the analysis was automatic, if cursory, and happened in a fraction of a second--he probably wasn't a blood mage. 

Leliana hauled him close, her glove fisted tight in the collar of his fraying coat, and let out a frustrated sound. _Probably_ wasn't a blood mage? She hated this; gambling was only acceptable when the odds could be stacked. She couldn't influence this, it was pure chance, but she couldn't dawdle and rethink anything. The body in her arms started shaking and she cast the die. "You. Can you heal?"

"It is not my speci--" he started and, for a frantic second, his eyes danced across Leliana's face. The look was laced with detached guilt, with surprise, with panic--he recognized her and she'd caught him out at something. She didn't care. Now wasn't the time.

"Answer," she snapped, Orlesian accent thick and unforgiving as she caught her breath. 

His eyes tracked, instantly, to the body cradled in her arm, to the bludgeoned, cherubic face resting against her shoulder, and then to the gash across her hand. His eyes widened as he saw it and, _finally_ he nodded. The motion was jerky, as though he'd forgotten to practice it today, but she still didn't care. She released him and moved her arm back beneath the girl, she could deal with his suspicious idiosyncrasies later. Above them the sky groaned and, with a staccato flurry of unnatural crackling thunder, dark shapes gathered against the edge of the Breach. Leliana craned her head back and watched as one of the shapes, with a truly ominous, terrible sloth moved to the edge of the rift. It disengaged from the storm and, as it plummeted down from impossibly high, she felt her stomach turn. It hit the ground somewhere distant, a few miles at the least, but she felt the muted tremor that shot through the earth. The bridge quivered, just slightly, and the girl in her arms let out a strangled scream. Leliana's attention snapped back and she found the apostate already weaving some silent silvery spell, his hands smoothing liquid magic across her pained expression.

That the child could scream was a dramatic improvement. Her gamble on this apostate paid off. Thank Andraste.

"She is hurt badly," he said, pausing as he sought the words for proper elaboration, as though they had time for this diagnosis while they stood on an exposed crossing. Leliana's expression hardened in an instant.

"Can you run and cast?" Leliana demanded more than asked and, to his credit, the apostate did not trouble her by answering. His staff rested against his shoulder and he reached for it without hesitation. By the time he'd wrapped his hand around the grip, Leliana had already broken into a sprint. He followed after her, very nearly on her heels, without a word. A soothing sensation, haphazard and flighty, danced across her arms and legs. The magic wasn't stable enough to _fix_ anything, but it would maintain and that was enough. The girl had stopped shaking and they were very near to real, defensible shelter.

Unfortunately, the thickest remaining crowds resided between the scattered cottages and trees that littered Haven. Cutting through them was no small chore and her agents had not yet caught them up. She shouted, demanded movement on the authority of a dead Divine, but she went unheard. All eyes were fixed on the sky, all attention tied to the shapes that lingered in the Breach. When one, and then another of the gathering shapes separated and tumbled toward the village, any hope of navigating through the crowd was lost. Panic gripped the tightly packed throng and their mad scrambling cut off any chance of escape or progress. The apostate seized her by her arm, gripped her hard, and hauled her into the cover of a large tree. The ancient fir did well enough against panicked Chantry sisters and terrified servants, but it did very little good when the impact finally came. 

The shapes, whatever they were, struck the ground with all the force of the Maker's fury. 

A wave of heat rippled through the air, smelling of smoke and lightning. The ancient trees around Haven burst apart, crashed into one another, and uprooted others as they fell. The ground rolled and shattered, simultaneously; the hard granite and iron beneath them rose up like a wave in a storm, crested, and broke apart with a brittle, deafening crack. The cottages and homes that stood at the lakeside burned and smoldered but, long before flame could catch, they were reduced to little more than pulpy rubble. A hail of rock and wooden shrapnel cut through the air, shredding foliage and wiping out nearly every structure to the waterline. Dust burst from every quarter, choked the remains of Haven, rushed through the devastated village in a wave, and shimmered as it flooded past them, as it slid over the apostate's barrier. Leliana hadn't noticed him cast it, a singular event but also a concern for another time. The hazy winter sunlight was smothered at the treeline, or where the treeline had been, and all visibility vanished.

It was dim, the sun shone blood red through the haze, and peering into the rising dust was like clawing through mud. She knew the way to the gates, if nothing had destroyed or blocked their path, but if the ground opened up beneath her, tripped them into a deep crater, it would be the end of all of them save (perhaps) the apostate. Leliana twisted, faced him over her shoulder to demand light, a conjured storm, anything to help them see, but her voice died on her lips. The roiling, gurgled laugh that pierced the panicked din had her blood running cold. Shadows scrambled through the dust as those who hadn't died or been rendered immobile tried to flee through the rubble. Red and orange light rose in the cloud before her and cast the shapes of the retreating into hard shadow; the heat, the searing rage, they bore down as it stretched long, formless arms toward the sky and unfurled itself. 

Demons...the falling shapes were demons. 

They were pouring from the rift...which meant the rocks within the breach itself...they were exactly what she'd feared....

The explosion had torn a hole into the Fade.

She had only a moment to reel at that revelation before the flaring, uneven green light poured from the child's hand again. It lit the cloud around them and snapped her into the moment as surely as a blow would have. She had fought demons, she knew this one's name just from the feel of it, but she had no time to deal with this. If she put this girl down, if she did anything but run, this child would expire and take all she'd seen and the magic that marked her into the darkness. Depending on the apostate wasn't an option, he couldn't be spared and there was no gauging his competence. In a last, desperate bid, Leliana pursed her lips and let out a sharp, loud, triple whistle. The sound split the air and whatever little attention she'd escaped before, it all turned on her immediately. A terrible moment, a handful of idle seconds crept by and the bright, burning eyes of the demon rounded to face them. 

No whistle answered her.

The demon moved toward them and, with a sharp pang of sorrow, Leliana's gaze flicked to the girl in her arms. She was going to have to let her die--

" _Templars!_ To me!" 

The shout was sudden, unexpected, and close enough that it nearly startled her. She didn't see the shapes in the dust, not until the reflection off a silvered shield caught the glare off the rage demon. The creature screamed and wheeled back. Its roar, loud and terrible, the essence of agony and anger, pulsed through the air like a ripple on water. By some Divine grace, the wave of sound thinned the dust enough to permit sunlight through to the ground. There were half a dozen templars gathered, each from different circles, clad in different colors, but the Sword of Mercy was a welcome sight, particularly as the other demons came into view. 

Shades, twisted creatures of bone and darkness, called and cawed as they lunged through the dust. The dull glimmer of red wisps danced in the distance and, behind them, there was a glassy shriek of despair. A man clad in crimson lunged between her and the rage demon and his sword struck deep into the demon's side. Even a flash of profile against the fur of his robes was enough--Kirkwall chantry, and before that Calenhad's Circle, she knew his face: Knight-Captain Cullen. He heaved his sword free and met her gaze for a bare instant before he was absorbed in combat again. She wasted no time and, as the demons bellowed and snarled at her back, she was in flight again. 

The child had resumed shaking, with violence rather than the gentle rattle of death, but healing had to wait. Just a few more moments; she just had to wait a few more moments. They cut across the uneven ground and smoldering rubble; the apostate kept impressive time, leaping over obstacles with nearly as much grace and efficiency as she did. He held her side as they dove through combat. Silver flashed against shadow all around them as they ran. A blast of magic, close enough to stir her heavy mail, threw a shade from their path and they reached what remained of Haven's steps. Leliana took them three at a time and, as they reached the splintered gates, they broke through the cloud and into the free air again. The sensation of another distant, heavy impact crawled up through their feet. Leliana didn't even turn to face it.

The shape of the Chantry rose above them, stretched tall and familiar, but the stone walls were all it offered. They needed more than stone. She paused at the crest of the stairs, for no longer than a second, but even that was a grueling waste. The apothecary. She knew where the building stood and made for it with speed. The barrier around them fell and that strange flighty healing sparked across her skin again. It was a worthy effort but futile, they were upon the building within that very heartbeat. Leliana didn't hesitate, didn't bother slowing as she reeled back and kicked the door in. The door itself was solid, made of heavy wood and as old as the village itself, but the aging lock gave, crumpled immediately under the blow from her boot. The door arched wide, swung fast, and struck the interior wall. It bounced off the stone with a bang and a shudder; they left it gaping as Leliana charged inside. The man she found wasn't the apothecary she'd expected, but he was dressed as one. 

He would do.

"Here! Now!" Leliana demanded, her tone held no room for argument. The apothecary dropped the flask in his hand, abandoned his task and the mess he'd made of the table, and bolted across the room. In a clean motion, he swept everything from the desk and onto the floor. Notes scattered, glass broke, and any number of precious things were damaged and lost as they trampled across them to the cleared surface.

"Put her there," he said, quick and sure, as he turned to retrieve a slew of items from the shelves that lined the wall. 

For all her haste--she'd taken the mountain path in less than ten minutes, of that she had no doubt--Leliana was slow and careful as she lowered the girl from where she rested against her chest. Her shaking had turned back into that fine, deathly tremor and the Nightingale was gentle as she lay her head down on the table. The apothecary pushed her aside once the girl was down, shoved her as few other people would have attempted or survived, and speedily set to work. As his hands freed, tinctures and tools all but thrown on the desk, he snapped his fingers at the apostate and impatiently demanded the mage assist. To his credit, the elf obliged him readily, even eagerly, and the girl was eclipsed from Leliana's sight.

" _You_ , get to the Chantry," the apothecary snapped over his shoulder as he bent to hastily examine the girl's head. His attention was focused entirely on the child, Leliana had a fond opinion of him already. "Elf woman there, name's Minaeve, get her and her tranquil down here now!"

Leliana's chest burned, she was winded and felt the painful stitch climb her side, but she sprinted from the building despite it. The Chantry was crowded, just as everywhere else had been, but these people knew who she was. More importantly, though, these people knew to move aside and they did so with a speed that would have been commendable if the situation weren't so fundamentally atrocious. Leliana reached the end of the hall and spotted a elf woman in mages' robes. Her utterly disaffected assistant betrayed her identity instantly. She paled as Sister Nightingale stormed toward her, but she didn't hide.

"Get to the apothecary," Leliana ordered sharply and the woman's eyes widened as she stared in shock. "You as well." The tranquil inclined her head but was slow to move. " _Go!_ "

The shout stunned the Chantry into silence and sent the elf woman and her assistant scrambling and dashing for the doors. Once they left there was a free moment, just one, and Leliana's chest heaved as she drew heavy, desperate breaths. Now that she could consider, could spare the seconds to think, she tried to assemble everything that was happening, everything that she'd just done, and the ramifications of all of it. There was so much to consider and there were far too many variables in play, but there was a clear and obvious hierarchy to what needed to be dealt with. The girl was at the top, but Leliana's participation in her predicament had come to a temporary end. She was unnecessary until the girl was stable. Next, the demons that fell from the rift. Cullen and a dozen templars would deal with the present, pressing assault, but if the village behind the Chantry wall was attacked, they would be overcome instantly.

Leliana's attention refocused with furious purpose and she scanned the confused faces of the faithful. She found one, a lay sister who still had a meanness, a hardness that spoke of her troubles before she joined the cloth, and the Nightingale's attention locked on her. She drew a dagger from her hip as she approached the sister and, to her pleasant surprise, the woman didn't even flinch. She flipped the knife and pressed the handle into the woman's palm, her stance and expression exuding all the authority she commanded.

"Find Seeker Pentaghast; take the bridge road and cut south-east to the secondary camps. We must keep the bridge, at least to the pass, and retake the gates of Haven." The woman nodded as she assimilated the message, her eyes clear and hard, and ran from the room without a question. If she survived, Leliana made a note to take her on as an agent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51709557#t51709557
> 
> Only partially applicable to the prompt, I'm afraid, but I promise it will get cuter.
> 
> This fic will be slower to update than the others I am working on, if only because the tone is so much more severe. I intend to have three chaptered parts to the story, the first of which will follow the beginning up until just before Skyhold. After the closing of the Breach, this one will be a little less dense and will jump forward to picking up other companions and such. I'm not sure about where the next one will end, not yet, but I've already got a great deal of this story plotted out. It's just a matter of writing it up and editing at this point.
> 
> Anywho, I hope you all enjoyed it and enjoy the rest of it.


	2. The Right Hand

"Why are the cells unoccupied?" Cassandra asked at a near shout as she stalked from the holding cells and exited into the Chantry. There were no servants on hand, no lay sisters or subordinates available to answer her and Cassandra's frustration visibly mounted. Leliana caught her as she moved through the colonnade and into the nave. 

It had taken the Seeker two days to return to Haven. It was a complication, Cassandra's abrupt absence, but thankfully not a surprise. The lay sister Leliana had sent to find her was quite skilled when it came to stealth; she had delivered the message before sundown and returned just before ten bells, slipping into the Chantry like a shade, her borrowed knife unused. The initial bombardment from the Breach had done considerable damage to the mountainside; clearing out the demons and shoring up the haphazard camps and scattered companies had taken quite a bit of time. Cassandra looked harried and exhausted; Leliana had no doubt she'd foregone sleep so she could establish sane order on the roads.

"You are earlier than I expected," Leliana told her as she dropped in step alongside the taller woman. "The forward camp has all but emptied of any forces Justinia did not hold direct sway over, but my agents report that they have fortified the perimeter and taken control of the road to the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

"The bridge is held and the southern pass has been dealt with," Cassandra said in kind, providing the barest necessities of information impatiently and without any conversational padding. Leliana quirked a brow but said nothing. With Cassandra's long, devouring strides, it took little time to reach the Chantry doors. She rounded on Leliana as they came to them, prepared to shout as she'd been shouting since the disaster, but the angry glower on her face faltered as she stared her friend down. Not so much as a greeting exchanged, nor an inquiry about health. Neither were necessary, of course, but Cassandra was a woman constructed of good intentions, to forego basic expressions of care toward someone she held dear...that was unacceptable to Cassandra. She offered a brief, almost apologetic nod, and Leliana returned it. "There are templars reconstructing the walls."

It wasn't a question. Leliana elaborated anyway. "The impact destroyed the village and damaged the fortifications. Fortunately, knocking down all the trees around the village meant lumber was plentiful. The walls should be completed within days. Unfortunately, once they are, we will lose several of the remaining templars back to their original commanders."

Cassandra's frown was tight but she held her tongue. After a moment of pause, she shook her head and returned to her previous topic. "Why are the cells unoccupied? I received multiple reports that a survivor was captured at the center of the ruins."

Leliana let out a short sigh. Her flight down the mountain had been sloppy and her stranglehold on important information had suffered because of it. Everyone knew there was a survivor, at the very least, even if nothing else had passed from any of those directly involved. It grated at her, but her pride wasn't something worth stewing over, what was done was done. She nodded and started out the door. Cassandra stalked behind her, hand on her sword and scowl on her face.

"The situation is...complex," Leliana explained calmly and Cassandra almost sneered.

"They should be in chains," Cassandra snapped. "The Temple was destroyed, everyone who attended was killed. Most Holy herself was murdered. Any survivor will be involved, mark my words, Leliana. If they are not the assassin, they are an accomplice." 

Cassandra was a reasonable woman, Leliana had known her long enough to know that she valued the truth and the morally right more highly than anything else. She was very passionate and, where others saw it as a flaw, Leliana found it to be one of her most endearing and positive traits. Arguing with her was worthless and they were far too exposed to have any such conversation. Once she saw the survivor Cassandra would understand and, only then, Leliana would explain. The apothecary's apartments were the closest building to the Chantry itself but the girl had been moved once Adan had done all he could. They strode past them to the small wooden cottage beyond it. The windows were shuttered and barred and there was a thin stream of smoke trailing from the chimney. There was, overall, nothing particularly notable about the building.

"Here?" Cassandra looked positively aghast. "Why are there no guards? Does that door even lock?" 

"It was the most appropriate choice," Leliana said easily, to Cassandra's confused horror.

"There is nothing appropriate--"

Cassandra's impending tirade was cut off immediately as the door to the cottage creaked and carefully open. The elven apostate, a man who introduced himself to Leliana as Solas, slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He'd heard the shouting, no doubt, and had decided to excuse himself before he became further involved. Unfortunately, Cassandra was at the breaking point and she took action on instinct. In an instant, Cassandra surged forward. She'd drawn her sword in the barest flash of motion and, when her sudden burst of movement came to an abrupt end, she had Solas pinned to the door. She braced her forearm across his neck; her sword was held level and tight, the razor tip of it aimed at his eye. Leliana didn't leap to stop her, though she didn't bother to mask her surprise, either. 

There was a tense moment as Cassandra's stare bore into Solas's face and the longer it went on the more then apostate paled. He didn't struggle against her, not that he could have and survived, despite his oddly wide build, and instead he froze against the wooden door. Cassandra's gloves creaked as she leaned forward toward him and tightened her grip on her sword. If the pallor and wide-eyed shock on his face was any indication, at that moment Solas would have merrily welcomed demons from the sky, so long as they gave him room to escape. Cassandra didn't flinch as Leliana came up at her side and set a hand on her upper arm. Solas couldn't swallow, she had her forearm pressed so tightly below his adam's apple.

"Cassandra, he is not the survivor," Leliana whispered calmly and Cassandra broke her fixed stare to turn her eyes on Leliana. A moment later, her head followed, canting slightly to face the redhead. Her sword did not falter in the slightest. "His assistance has been invaluable to me; he has saved several lives, my own included." It was an exaggeration, if not exactly an outright lie, and Solas's wide, panicked stare flicked to her. Cassandra missed the confusion on his face, he veiled it well before she turned her attention back on him. She held him for a moment longer and then, with no warning, released the hold across his neck and took a step back. Solas sagged against the door and her sword was sheathed as quickly as it had been drawn.

"If Leliana owes you her thanks," Cassandra started, her anger still fresh and livid, but she fought it back and tried to find her calm. Anger was likely all that kept her awake at this point, watching her abandon her rage was to watch her gradually sink into exhaustion. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her nose. After a beat she let it out and leveled a perfectly flat look at the elf. It lasted a moment then, at once, her expression warred. She was sorry and while she did not often apologize, she was not loathe to do it, but there were far more pressing matters at hand, particularly the security and state of their prisoner. The apology was cast aside, for the moment, and she all but interrogated Solas. "I owe you mine as well. Now what, exactly were you doing in there? Where is the prisoner?"

It was a quick and haphazard end to the potential violence but, under the circumstances, it was the best they could hope for. Solas caught his breath, fingers pressed gingerly to the red mark on his neck, and gradually regained his composure. If he remained in front of the door by choice, it was a kind attempt, if by accident, Leliana almost pitied him for the eventual pain such foolishness would conjure. He didn't seem angry or, for that matter, entirely shaken as he lowered his hands and looked between them.

"Seeker Pentaghast, I presume," Solas said politely, though there was a roughness to his voice. He cleared his throat and, already, it was painfully apparent that he spoke too slowly for Cassandra's current tastes. "I would gladly explain, but Sister Nightingale was very firm on the subject of conversation and where it was permitted."

Cassandra's guilt over attacking him was spent by the time he finished his excuses. He'd taken quite a long time to say that he wasn't going to say anything and, in her current mood, it was more than unacceptable. Leliana expected her to shout, or perhaps fight to regain some semblance of calm, but she did neither. Cassandra, it seemed, was far more strained than Leliana had suspected and, without any politesse, she took Solas by the shoulder and shoved him aside. His eyes widened again but his polite, desperate request that she wait was lost to the bang of the cottage door as Cassandra threw it open and strode in, her boots heavy and loud with the promise of execution. The building was not large, it had only one room, and it did not take long for the Seeker's eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness. Both Leliana and Solas heard her strangled gasp from outside; they followed her in without a word and Solas closed the door behind them.

For as harsh as she'd just been all of it had fled her. She stood stock still, paused mid-step, her dark eyes locked on the bed and one gloved hand covering her mouth, obscuring the lower half of her face. Solas seemed confused, even surprised by the shift in her demeanor, by the earnest expression of sorrow and shock that painted her face, that curled her shoulders inward, protectively. Her stance softened by the second and the apostate looked at Leliana as if she could explain. Leliana made no excuses for Cassandra, she didn't require them. She was a warrior but this was why she was strong. This was a perfect reflection of what made her the Right Hand of the Divine, why she was venerated above all others, why she'd been selected, and why they were friends. Cassandra's free hand trembled, forgotten at her side, and Leliana moved to stand next to her, to obscure it from Solas's bewildered stare.

The girl looked so much worse now. The bruises and swelling had taken time to settle and blossom under her skin, and they did so with a vengeance, but the rise and fall of her chest was even, steady, and visible despite the heavy blankets she was swathed in. Half of her face was a bruise; it radiated in shades of dark mottled purple, black, and grey and faded to a sickly yellow and brackish green along its edges. Her head was bandaged, dark hair askew at odd angles, black against the light pillow beneath her head. Apart from her head, only her arms rested atop the blankets. One arm was bruised, dappled green and blue, with a clean bandage wrapped around her palm. The other arm rested loosely at her side, palm open and upturned, with smears of elfroot poultice across the tiny cuts on her hand and wrist. The mark was dim, but alight, and flickered wildly. It gave off the distinct and disconcerting impression of a candle about to be blown out.

"Though her appearance has deteriorated, I can assure you," Solas's voice fit with this building, quiet and proper. Between the almost oppressive warmth of the fire, the heavy smell of medications and tinctures, and the spartan, haggard look of the cottage and its furnishings, he almost blended in as easily as a fixture. "Both of you," he corrected, "that she is greatly improved." Cassandra sucked in another sharp, silent breath and her neck shifted as it caught in her throat. Cassandra had no idea how much worse it was but Leliana didn't envy her imagining her horror. They had seen enough terrors that Cassandra had no dearth of violence to draw from.

"Thank you, Solas," Leliana said brusquely. "If we may have a moment?"

"Of course," Solas answered smoothly, almost reflexively. Leliana was a bit surprised he was so willing to step out, particularly considering the dedication he'd already committed to this task, but it was possible he was merely being polite. "Before I leave, Researcher Minaeve had a request. I informed her I would have to ask your permission before I could grant it."

"Oh?" Leliana asked, interest piqued even as a thread of irritation wound through her. Asking questions of this sort while being dismissed was an old trick, and an obvious one. Unfortunately, it had the benefit of being employed by those who actively exploited it and those who blundered along in equal measure. She still wasn't certain which Solas was, but she would not cast aside his help for so small a suspicion.

"The request concerns the shards we extracted. Minaeve wishes to--"

"Shards?" Cassandra's voice cut into the conversation. The authority that usually laced her tone was absent, replaced with a nameless strain. She sounded almost watery in her distraction. She lowered her hand from her mouth and hurriedly attempted to compose herself, to correct her posture to something appropriately distant and severe, but she couldn't seem to look away from the girl. "What shards?"

"Ah," Solas said and hesitated for a moment. He moved, a bit awkwardly, and retrieved a glass flask from the table beside the bed. Inside it was an array of jagged gravel that seemed, frankly, mundane. As he jostled the jar, unnatural, glittering flashes of red and green danced against the glass and against the dark, opaque stones. The flask caught the firelight and cast a sickening array of dancing lights against the wall. He offered the flask to the Seeker but she did not take it, nor did Leliana, so he withdrew his hand. "Whether she lost them or was not wearing them, her feet were bare when she was found. While elves have feet capable of withstanding greater extremes than any human or dwarf, she is...young. The skin on her feet was--is--still tender and, as such--"

"Stop," Cassandra interrupted and Solas did as he was bade. He turned his attention to Leliana, then, quickly and desperately diverting the topic to one that might not rouse her ire directly.

"I suspect that several are from beyond the veil, Researcher Minaeve agrees with me and wished to study them. Given the extremely sensitive nature of the situation, I felt it best to seek permission rather than forgiveness."

"A wise choice. Thank you, Solas," Leliana said, and threatened, almost distractedly. She nodded at him. "Minaeve knows to keep them hidden, but gently remind her when you deliver them for study."

Solas bowed in a shallow, abbreviated way. It was a motion that hearkened to manners that were oddly formal for an elf or an apostate, another curiosity. Once he rose, he hastily made his exit. The door closed softly behind him and the silence that engulfed the room was nearly painful. Leliana had seen the girl several times over the last few days, in many different shades of injury and desperation. The sight of the child now, like this, was a balm to her. Cassandra, likely, did not feel the same. There was no comfort in this sight, not without having seen her in a far worse state, and that thought alone was excessively morbid.

The child, the survivor, was just a little elven girl. She had long, dark hair and wide, dark eyes, and was utterly dwarfed by the bed, by the small cottage, and by its meager furnishings. The bed was small, no adult human could lie on it without curling one way or another, but it almost seemed to swallow her up. When Leliana had first seen her, she'd seemed terribly thin. Her long, willowy limbs looked so delicate, so painfully slender, that she'd worried about neglect. Unfortunately, the truth was so much worse. On closer inspection, without urgency cutting all her thoughts in half, she found the exact opposite of her assumption was true. The child's limbs were willowy but had the soft, universal wrapping of fat that spoke of reliable, constant access to food. She had no lingering symptoms of illness, no swelling in her joints that spoke of undernourishment, no marks of tragedy on her that weren't utterly recent.

This girl had been loved, cherished, and raised with constant care and attention for every day of her short life.

"My agents spread a rumor through the remaining forces and faithful," Leliana said and stepped up alongside the bed. The frame whined as she turned and seated herself on its edge. "A quick, amused tale about a little elven girl who'd lost her guardians and came into the Chantry, wailing and sobbing, during the morning silence. So far, none have come seeking her." 

Cassandra was silent for a long while and, when she broke that silence, her weariness was audible.

"Why? Who brought a child to the Conclave?" Cassandra asked. She clearly didn't expect an answer, but Leliana had the shades of one.

"She is well loved and healthy, recent injuries aside. If she was brought here by so attentive a guardian, it was because there was no one to leave her with." Leliana's critical eye was far better than the Seeker's, it was an ability that came, hand in hand, with the darker aspects of her position in the Chantry. Still, she didn't expect it would take Cassandra long to see all of the signs. The Seeker was neither slow nor a fool, when the shock wore away she would read this girl's face as easily as any. "I suspect her guardians are dead. I hope it is otherwise...but I do not expect it to be so."

Finally, almost reluctantly, Cassandra tore her gaze from the girl's face and looked at Leliana. She was tired but there was a set to her jaw, a determination in her eyes. The warrior would not sleep until she'd been made current about this issue. Without a word, Leliana rose from the bed and motioned to the table and chairs below the shuttered window. The cold air that leaked through was refreshing and it helped Cassandra focus as she took a seat. Leliana withdrew a folded stack of papers from one of the pockets that lined her hauberk; she tossed the vellum onto the wooden table, in front of Cassandra, and took her own seat. Cassandra did not read quickly, but Leliana had no doubt she would want to read those pages before she was done speaking.

"The reports from the three scouts that found the girl. The first two are being watched by my agents, they've been assigned various menial tasks. The third, well, his situation is more nuanced." Leliana folded one leg over the other and rested her hands on her knee. Cassandra bowed to pretense and unfolded the reports, but she didn't glance past the names scribed at the top of each. The first two each occupied a single page, the third was considerably longer and written in a far shakier and less legible hand. She peered at it tiredly, but Leliana spared her the strain, at least for the moment.

"They are virtually identical," she began. "The scouts saw a rift open beneath the Breach and, whether they were too awestruck or she too small, none of them report seeing the child until the moment before the rift slammed shut."

"Awestruck?" Cassandra asked blankly. There was no reason for florid language, not with a subject like this, but Leliana did not retract the word.

"All three reported seeing a woman in the rift."

"A woman?" The Seeker's brows rose in surprise and Leliana had her full, undivided attention.

"Yes. A woman made of brilliant, golden light, and wreathed in flame." Cassandra looked thunderstruck and, while she was listening intently to Leliana's every work, she turned her eyes to the pages before her. "They say she spoke, shouted something beautiful and terrible, lifted her arms aloft and slammed the rift closed. The scouts claim that, just before the rift closed, the girl leaped from it and ran, little more than a blur, until she either collapsed or fell. In either case, she suffered a serious head injury, something that was apparent to the scout in the first report, even at the time. All of the individual aspects within the reports align except for one section of the third." Leliana reached across the table and withdrew, from the stack of pages, the last of the third scout's report. She extended it to Cassandra and the other woman took it, squinting into the dimness as she did, straining to read what the quickly scrawled and slurred letters said. 

"Where his account diverges from the others is...unsettling. He claims that he understood what the woman shouted at them."

"What?" Cassandra was, all at once, shocked and skeptical. She drew breath to object but the look of seriousness on Leliana's face made her take pause.

"In his report he says that he didn't understand the words, it wasn't a language he spoke, but he _felt_ the meaning behind them. The specific message varies slightly, throughout his report, but the overall message is the same. He was so shaken by the experience that he's submitted to being sequestered in the Chantry apartments." Leliana inclined her head before Cassandra could speak. "I would have bound him and locked the cell myself, but he wanted to be taken in. There was no need to throw him in chains. My agents will not allow him to leave, but there was and remains no need for cruelty."

"What did she say?" Cassandra questioned. 

"Reportedly," Leliana prefaced slowly, "She told them not to be afraid and continued to say something about going with her blessing because she will protect us." 

Silence settled across them again and Cassandra simply stared. It was lunacy, more than that, it was heresy. Individually, any aspect of these reports could be taken with some measure of ambiguity, some suspicion, but that message was so overt and outlandish that it tipped the sum. When combined, each piece became more than the whole of them, it was more than enough to rattle a neutral party. Someone with such a specific account needed to be questioned, by both of them, and the veracity of their claim weighed. Cassandra wondered, briefly, why Leliana had entertained such blatant blasphemy, but realized quickly enough that Leliana didn't entertain any information she considered worthless. She'd intentionally and openly assigned her agents to guard the third scout, she'd locked him in the most secure building, in one of the most secure spaces, in solitude with spies, _assassins_ to protect him in place of guards. If holding him was key, the cells would have sufficed, but Leliana had insured that no word of his would slip from within the Chantry's walls.

Leliana believed his claim was credible enough to merit restricting.

"There is no one to task with this," Cassandra said, almost dazed, as she did a mental tally of all the clergy taken at the Conclave. A miracle, particularly one in the direct name of Andraste, with any sort of compelling evidentiary support would be weighed, investigated, and the Divine herself would have to pass judgment on the truth of it. "Most Holy cannot..." But this was not simply someone claiming they'd witnessed a miracle. The implication was that Andraste, herself, had spared this child and sent her from the Fade...that this child was to save _us_ because she was blessed by the Bride of the Maker. This situation was unprecedented. While there had been many claims of men and women who said they heard the Maker speak to them, or insisted that they were commanded by Divine Andraste to perform some task, none had ever been more substantial than a fool's dream. This was different, utterly different, and had substantial evidence already. 

If it were true, this little elven girl was nothing shy of a prophet.

Leliana watched her put all of the pieces together and waited until Cassandra's stare focused on her again.

"The number of people aware of this report can be counted on one hand. The other two scouts were not told, the third feared they would reveal him and he would be excommunicated." Leliana leaned back in her chair and drew a deep, contemplative breath. "The agents that guard the sequestered scout are not aware of his claims. He is unlikely to share as I've made sure they wear the heraldry of the Sunburst Throne. Only you, I, the scout,and an agent of the cloth, the one who brings his meals and hears his confessions, are aware of that report's contents. Until that girl wakes up, we have no other information. Nothing to confirm or disprove any of it."

"And the mark on her hand?" Cassandra asked and looked back at the bed. The light from the hearth eclipsed the green on her palm almost entirely.

"Solas has been studying it as he cares for her. He has prevented it from overtaking her, from growing, but it is still wildly unstable. He says it is tied to the Fade in a way he can't quite explain." Leliana looked at the bed, as well, and a sadness ghosted over her features. "He insists that it is of dire importance. It may be the key to closing the rifts and the Breach."

The same sadness that settled in Leliana's eyes moved over Cassandra then. Both women stared at the child on the bed, watched the slight rise and fall of the blankets around her chest, and found no words. The situation required time, to digest all they knew and consider it, it required investigation, and a hundred other individual attentions. It was beyond unlikely that any given aspect of this was true, let alone all of it, but the impact of that sort of long term truth was far off. There were more immediate issues and, somehow, none of them were less staggering. When this girl awoke, she would find herself entirely alone, branded with terrifying magic, and burdened with a responsibility that no one person should bare. If everything they'd been told were little more than lies, if this woman of light was simply a demon, a dream, a hallucination, and everything else completely mundane, that child would still be alone. She would still carry that mark.

She was so young.

"Does Solas know how old she is?" Cassandra asked quietly, softly, and a briefing became a conversation. Leliana let out a hesitant hum that became a soft sigh.

"Both he and Minaeve agree. She can't be younger than three years of age, nor much older than five," Leliana answered, heavily, with more reluctance than she'd shown during the rest of their interactions this day. Cassandra uttered a short, harsh blasphemy under her breath and looked away from the girl as she stood. She looked ready to speak, to say something to Leliana, but Leliana interrupted her. Neither of them needed platitudes and Cassandra was useless without rest. "Sleep, Cassandra. I will deal with whatever comes in the meanwhile."

Cassandra paused and whatever she was about to say was cast aside and forgotten. She didn't bid her friend a good night, the sentiment was too macabre to speak aloud in this room, but she did incline her head. The Seeker left the cabin with none of the ferocity she'd taken into it. Leliana said nothing as she went, and retrieved the reports for safe keeping. When she stood, she'd fully intended to leave, to make her rounds and keep appraised of the endless tasks required around Haven, but she found herself moving to the girl's bedside again. Before she could think it over, she took the seat that rested by the head of the bed and, for quite a while, sat in silence.

Solas had all but stationed himself in this position. He'd spent every waking hour at her side and when he finally slept it was on a bedroll nearby. His devotion to the task was touching, though Leliana couldn't tell if it was borne of genuine care or motivated by the strangeness of the magic in her palm. It had been more than a decade since she'd been called optimistic, but she sincerely hoped it was the former. Either way, his work was more than any single kindness. It would be a terrible tragedy if this girl awoke and found no one at her side; Solas's attentiveness guaranteed that she wouldn't have to look far to find a friendly, if unfamiliar, face. 

Leliana removed her gloves and, with excruciating gentleness, she brushed some of the girl's hair off her brow. She was feverish but not alarmingly so. Leliana had no idea if elven children were simply warmer, or if the bruises and swelling beneath her skin were to blame. Her dark hair was soft and silken, thin in a delicate way that only a young child's ever was, and Leliana absently smoothed the odd angles it had been pressed into when her head was bandaged. It was inane, to be certain, but she didn't want the girl's hair to tangle too terribly. If she awoke, drawing a comb through tangles, pulling at her abused scalp...it was another slight this child didn't deserve.

The mark sputtered in her hand, crackled as the hearth did, and flashed as a distant crash of thunder resounded from the Breach. Her face, all roundness and joy beneath her injuries, screwed up tightly with discomfort. Something like a whine strained against her throat and came up, through her nose, as she slept. The sound was pained and high, laced with distress, and Leliana carefully smoothed a hand over the unmarred side of her face. She whispered quiet, nonsense assurances and the girl calmed. Once she started talking, saying nothing softly and sweetly to this child who couldn't hear her, it was hard to stop. Over minutes just spent babbling, telling this child about her hair, about how her mother used to brush hers, about the snow and any simple subject that came to mind, the girl shifted her face into Leliana's hand. 

The Nightingale felt her heart clench inside her ribs.

If the sound of her voice soothed any of this child's ills, Leliana would gladly provide it.

It had been years since she'd sang, longer still since the songs had been anything but hymnals or a brief snatch of rhyme over drinks, but she didn't hesitate now. She was almost bent in half as she leaned over the girl, humming a quiet lullaby as she stroked her thumb across the child's cheek. Eventually humming gave way to soft words, split between the common speech and Orlesian, and she gradually went through every simple, comforting song she knew. As she sang, the child slipped into a more serene, deeper slumber and Leliana felt a weight ease off her chest.


	3. The Lone Apostate

Eight days passed and each time he emerged from the cottage, Solas looked worse. The apostate had been calm, collected, and polite, even in the face of violence and death, only days before. Now, when he stepped from the cottage, he had a haunted look about him. When addressed directly he was nearly skittish, his answers and attention flighty, his gaze drawn constantly to the looming storm and the Breach. The Apothecary, Adan, was no healer, nor was the elven researcher, so the task of minding the girl, of watching hour after hour as she failed to rouse, fell entirely to him. Unfortunately, there was little solace to be had outside of the cottage, either.

The serene beauty of Haven had been taken, on whole, by the demons that fell in that first hour. Half of the landscape was barren, covered in piles of lumber, soaked by feet of dirtied snow, and choked with freezing mud. The frozen lake was silent, the wind howled distantly through the mountains, and the Breach churned with a quiet, persistent rumble in the sky. Haven was a shade of itself. Unfortunately, however depressing the landscape had become, the people were far moreso. Those who could leave had, days ago, and those who remained were either destitute or consumed by grief. The bodies that littered the valley were too numerous to gather, it would take months to even locate them all, but many still ventured out, day by day, and tried to build pyres. The distant rise of smoke on the road to the Temple provided a solemn and sorrowful sort of hope; funerals were, at the moment, both a luxury and a salve. The people who lingered seemed to almost savor them, in their way.

The Nightingale had built order around them as quickly as she could. The walls were strong, Cullen and his remaining templars held the gates, the houses were rebuilt or reinforced, and the sisters in the Chantry even held services. By the end of the first week, her agents had organized an _ad hoc_ supply chain and food, merchants, and distraught pilgrims began to trickle into Haven. Trading on the promise of a favor, Leliana managed to arrange a bare-bones tavern. The house devoted to it was large and unfit for storing anything perishable. Flissa kept the hearths stoked and served whatever Leliana's agents could stock her with. The atmosphere was thick and heavy in the bar, but the numbness of alcohol was welcome nonetheless.

While the Left Hand of the Divine held and fortified the people of Haven, the Right Hand tightened its grip over the armaments of the Chantry. The Divine's guard, faithful forces of Ferelden, of the Free Marches, and of Orlais gathered under Cassandra's orchestration. As the lumber and rubble was cleared from Haven's gates, canvas tents and soldiers appeared in its place. What few mounts remained, scattered through the valley, were gathered and brought to Haven's stables. What few craftsmen still lingered were given tools and access to the forge. Their supplies weren't considerable, Haven had spent the last decade as little more than a distant, symbolic pilgrimage, but it was something. 

Varric Tethras, who insisted he was both in Cassandra's custody and simultaneously a free dwarf, depending on whom he spoke to and when he was asked, did Leliana a few grand favors in those earliest days. His ties to the merchants' guild, to the rich, the noble, or the startlingly pious had resulted in several abrupt and unexpected boons. The dwarf had friends in very strange places, something he was very vocally proud of, and a number of them were generous in exchange for written news from the site of the Conclave. While the dissemination of information, particularly to people Leliana knew not at all, had the potential to be exceedingly dangerous, Varric was prone to hyperbole, colorful embellishment, and frustrating cliffhangers. His accounts were riveting and, while they weren't technically inaccurate, they certainly didn't contain anything that needed restricting. It was another gamble, one with very high stakes, but when food and medicine were stabilized thanks to the charity of enraptured Nobility, Leliana decided to allow Varric’s letters to continue.

Varric was often an inconvenience (more to Cassandra than anyone else) but he was not malicious nor especially greedy. There was a strong thread of genuine decency and empathy that ran through the dwarf and, honestly, his presence in Haven was uplifting. He didn't bring cheer, not exactly, but there was a certain calmness that came over tired faces, as they sat with Varric at the bonfire, as they listened to his outlandish tales and ridiculous exaggerations. When they finally left the fireside, after a story or a chat, they seemed...lighter. After a few days, the effect of his presence was so obvious that even Solas sought him out. The apostate and the dwarf had not been introduced, not directly, but the sound of friendly conversation over the wreckage of a battlefield was like a beacon. It was impossible for Solas not to know the source, despite the near constant vigil he held inside the dim cabin. It was hard to say how, given the persistent nature of the apostate's distress, but the dwarf managed to ease some of his burden.

Naturally, Cassandra greatly disapproved of the situation. The moment she first saw them, seated together and engaged in pleasant conversation, her blood had all but run cold. She was less forgiving, less reasonable than she usually was, as she lingered in her grief. The death of the Divine weighed heavily on her and the stresses that mounted at her feet only made her quicker to anger. 

"I am surprised that you permit this to continue," Cassandra said, sounding both disgusted and suspicious, and Leliana was forced to turn her attention away from the trade map before her. She looked up, a brow already quirked, but Cassandra’s attention wasn’t on her. The Seeker was glowering out, past the worn canvas of the quartermaster's tent, in the direction of Varric and the bonfire. Leliana looked back down at the map and continued to make notes as she spoke.

"Is he singing again, or re-enacting his adventures with the Champion?" Leliana asked, almost blandly, as her quill scratched against the map. When it turned back on her, the Seeker's gaze was a tangible weight. Leliana didn’t look back up, but she paused her writing when it fell on her. Cassandra radiated impatience, her tone hard and fixed.

"His conversations with that elf you have watching the..." Cassandra's language faltered, there, as she struggled to find a word that sufficed, that captured the situation but was also fit for public use. Her searching yielded no results and and let out a disgruntled sigh as she stepped alongside the crates and Leliana's map. "Why do you allow them to talk? That apostate cannot be trusted, he knows far too much, and Varric will gladly spill the Chantry's secrets at the first opportunity."

"If you would like, I could have them both put in chains," Leliana suggested. She was tired, the fate of that child weighed on her along with everything else. The death of the Divine had been a huge blow and, as the shock wore away, she was left feeling empty and sharp. It was hard to keep bitterness from filling the hollow where her faith had been, but she tried. "Though I doubt a change of venue would really stop Varric from talking as he pleased."

"Do not joke, Leliana, this is not a game." Cassandra was trying to be quiet, her voice hushed, but her tone held more than a little reprimand. Leliana looked up then, unwilling to be scolded when she failed to indulge in undue suspicion, and glared openly at Cassandra. The Seeker was surprised and, for a moment, a little hurt at the severity of Leliana's expression. "I...I did not mean--I am sorry."

The two women stared at one another for several seconds before Leliana let out a slow sigh and drew herself up. Her expression was much softer, then, and Cassandra's hardened as Leliana glanced past her, at the bonfire. She let it linger on the shapes and faces around it, but she found nothing untoward in their conversations. She couldn’t hear them, not entirely, but there didn’t appear to be any maliciousness hiding within Varric and Solas’s conversation.

Solas was a point of contention between them, however quiet, and neither side had the argument necessary to resolve his involvement. 

The elven apostate was an unknown; he specialized in the Fade, an area of expertise that all but begged for possession, particularly now, and he knew far more about the situation than either of them were comfortable with. His motivations appeared to be altruistic, but it was Leliana who was tasked with defending him. Her trust was not earned easily and her suspicion lingered for long years; she trusted him more than most, given his eagerness to assist and the nature of his past actions, but that didn't mean she was even vaguely comfortable with him. Cassandra disliked him, suspected him of much, but was forced to rely on testimony from Leliana. While she didn’t doubt Leliana’s words or endorsements, the Seeker had not seen Solas take any action. The immaterial nature of the evidence bothered Cassandra endlessly; it was difficult to contest and impossible to validate which left her adrift in stifling, persistent uncertainty.

Behind them, the muted sounds of conversation around the campfire grew abruptly louder. A gale of tired, genuine laughter pierced the heavy atmosphere of Haven and, within it, Varric's was easily the loudest and the most enthused. It was nearly impossible to hear the words spoken around the bonfire, not over the haphazard sounds of construction and the persistent whistle of the unhindered wind, but Cassandra and Leliana were perceptive enough to catch and part individual voices from the din. The source of their amusement, the laughter and vague congratulations, seemed to be some story Solas had told. The listeners commentary lingered, light and amused, and then silence fell over the bonfire once more. When the elf picked up his tale again, polite cadence sounding almost energetic, Cassandra shot Leliana a wordless glance and excused herself. 

Leliana watched her go, watched her stalk off toward the apothecary and the cabin that housed the survivor, and released a heavy breath. She disliked arguing with Cassandra as much as Cassandra disliked arguing with her. They were closer than sisters; without Divine Justinia, Leliana was certain that Cassandra was the last person in all of Thedas that she honestly loved. They could not resolve this, themselves, not without evidence or providence they had no means of acquiring. 

They needed a neutral third party, someone considerably more diplomatic than either of the hands of the last Divine. 

Leliana left the quartermaster's tent and stepped into the wind that chilled Haven. She made for the Chantry and, long before her boots reached the stone steps, she knew the names and whereabouts of those she’d ask to assist them. She was already drafting letters in her mind when another wave of laughter resounded through the yard. She pushed open the doors to the Chantry and, as Cassandra had minutes before, Leliana let out a disgusted sound.

They didn't begrudge the grieving their joy, neither Leliana nor Cassandra were so needlessly cruel, but neither could indulge in the luxury of relaxation, of jubilation in any degree. The nearest either of them managed, so far as finding peace was concerned, was when they went to check on the child and sat in that all-consuming quiet that filled the cabin. It was not a comfortable silence, and the sense of peace it granted was macabre at best. It was the sort of stillness that lingered alongside deathbeds, but it was superior to the strain of building a battlefield atop a graveyard, if only just. The walls of the cabin were thick enough that they blocked out the cold and the noise; the time, if only spent in prayer or pity, was lonely and, in a truly disquieting fashion, almost restful. 

Cassandra had wondered, perhaps, if they mistook resignation for rest, but the answer wasn't one that either wanted to know.

While Leliana retired to the depths of the Chantry, Cassandra escaped the sounds of the bonfire, the muted and hollow notes of the bard's lute and the tavern's hearth, by ducking into the cottage. It was stifling and warm inside the building, the hearth was empty but embers still glittered, faintly, in the ash. Solas had doused the candles before taking his break.

There was something in that simple detail that instantly irritated Cassandra, that grated her to her very core. It wasn't a fair or balanced reaction, of that she was well aware, but the thought that he could snuff out the lights and wander from his sole task, that he would linger elsewhere for any reason, like some circle scribe taking the afternoon off, sickened her to the depths of her soul.  
The light that leaked in through the shutters wasn't much. It fell in uneven beams of watery grey, little more than reflections of skylight and the shine off drifts of snow, but it was more than enough for Cassandra. She closed the door behind her, trapped the heat inside, and moved through the darkness to the girl's bedside. It could have been pitch dark and she would have found her way to the chair beside the bed; she knew where it was without the use of her eyes, she barely bothered to feel for it in the dimness before she sat. She had made this journey at least once a day; Leliana darted in whenever she could. Honestly, she was surprised their feet hadn't carved a path into the floor.

The girl was improved, at least in all the most obvious ways. The swelling on her face, the bruises that mottled her skin, all of it had faded with time and careful care. At the moment, Cassandra found it hard to grant Solas the gratitude such a mundane, constant task had earned him and shifted her attention to the rise of the child's cheek. Without thought, the Seeker tugged her armored glove free and brushed bare fingers across the girl's face. Her skin was soft and warm, tender and smooth as only a babe’s could be. Leliana kept the child's hair combed and neat; it was a compulsion that Cassandra didn't understand but still managed to appreciate in moments like these. With her hair tended to, her face clean and neat, it was easier to ignore how she gradually faded. Even when she accounted for the lack of swelling, the child's cheeks were losing shape. The pallor that her skin reclaimed was harsher than it should have been, she was too pale, too fair even for an elf. This little girl was dying, wasting away while they sat by and did nothing.

While some wild mage Leliana had stumbled upon told Varric stories, while he bandied jokes to a crowd around a bonfire, while he relaxed in the sunshine.

Cassandra was a cautious woman, but she didn't think she was bitter. She did not dismiss the past, but she rarely held grudges for longer than they were warranted and, truly, Solas had done nothing to earn her ire. The anger that coiled in her, that wound up and found purchase in her frustration, in her tension, in her fear of the Breach, it wasn't something that she could blame on Solas. He was but the barest factor in a web of tactics and consequences that stretched across all of Thedas. Cassandra knew this, she recognized it as easily as any other truth, but it did nothing to help her bite back her emotions. The bile that rose in her throat and the rage that twisted in her gut were not logical, were not drawn from a place of sound judgment, and couldn’t be swayed with anything as bare and obvious as fact. 

The mark on the girl's hand stuttered, flickering green just brightly enough to highlight the way her brow pinched. She sucked in a quiet breath and it became a keening whine, soft and childish, and Cassandra’s heart ached in her chest. The first time the Seeker had ever heard the girl's voice it had been in a wordless sound of pain, hearing it again--

What if this was the last time she heard this child's voice?

The thought was still raw in her mind when the door to the cottage creaked open again. Her attention snapped up as a shaft of light fell across her. Her heavy gaze pinned Solas mid-step, as he entered the building, and the tension in the Seeker drew to the very limit and snapped. His stance had been light, nearly relaxed as he pushed the door open, and her presence came as a shock to him. The calm set of his features and the mild smile on his face barely had time to fade before Cassandra rose and was on him. Whatever beverage he'd brought back with him was on the floor, spilled as his fingers went abruptly limp; his tankard clattered quietly to the floorboards and was immediately forgotten. Within in instant, Solas had his back against the wall and Cassandra had her uncovered hand wrapped around his throat. She'd meant to grab him by the shirt, to intimidate him, not attack--This should not be happening, he deserved none of this...and yet, as a soft cry pierced the air behind her, Cassandra found herself utterly unable to stop.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," Cassandra seethed and the elf, completely unprepared for the sudden severity of her hostility, paled. He scrambled for words frantically and conjured only the fragmented sounds that joined to make Leliana's title. Cassandra cut him off before he could form anything more coherent or cohesive. Her own glare, dangerous and dreadful, was reflected back at her in the wideness of his eyes. "Is this a game to you?"

Her question was nothing short of a shout and she pressed him hard against the wall before releasing him. He sagged and pushed against the wall to stand, his eyes alert and wild as he searched for a weapon. As his overwhelming shock wore off, his searching halted. He was an apostate, a fact that had burned in Cassandra's mind for days, and she had no doubt that he knew what templars were capable of. Even if he was a fool, if he had not asked about her and did not know about her position or the Seekers of Truth, the Sword of Mercy adorned her armor. There was no mistaking what it implied, what threat that symbol posed to people like him. Her abilities were different from Cullen’s men, but no lesser; no single mage could stand against her in combat. 

Why was she considering combat? She did not plan to duel him, to slay him in cold blood--why had she allowed this to come to this point?

"I have tried everything," Solas reasoned, quietly, desperately and Cassandra nearly sneered at him.

"So you say," she snapped and stepped away from him. She snagged his shirt and pulled him from the wall as though he weighed nothing. He stumbled into the dimness of the room and there was no quiet crackle of flame, no gentle candlelight to light the way. He was alone in the dark, penned into an unfamiliar room by bars of thick shadow. Just as there was nothing to comfort that girl, there was nothing to comfort Solas.

"You are _lying_ ," Cassandra added, her tone too certain to be anything as ephemeral as an accusation. "You sit here and prod at a dying child, test and invade her with your magic like a relic, abandon her at a whim, and leave her to fade away. You desire the power that kills her, nothing more, and you let all of us shoulder the danger around you as you try to extract it."

Solas flinched as she began and whatever color remained in him drained away as she continued. While Leliana excelled at reading circumstances and people, Cassandra was more than adept at reading reactions. The way he twisted beneath her words, the unguarded flickering of his features, the slight recoil in his spine, they were nothing shy of a confession. Whether she was entirely correct or only partially, she had struck truth in her rage. He shrank back from her awkwardly, as though he'd never shrank away from anything before and was unaware how to do it properly, and Cassandra advanced on him. Her fury was a tangible force and it preceded her by a step, heavy and oppressive. She saw him flinch as her rage twisted at the lyrium in his veins. 

He offered up no defense to her accusations and Cassandra charged ahead.

"You have worn through your welcome, _Solas_ ," Cassandra hissed as she drew herself up and towered over him. "Leliana may allow you to waste her time, overburdened as she is, but I will tolerate this no longer." Solas swallowed and Cassandra's gaze drifted to his throat before snapping back to his eyes. "You have until dawn to produce something of _value_ or you will be charged as an apostate and summarily executed."

This had gone too far, she felt it as the words left her. Unfortunately, while they’d pushed well beyond what was reasonable, Cassandra didn't regret them. She did not trust Solas and she was not so enamored with his skills that she would eschew her intuition in his favor. This had escalated too quickly, from bare irritation to mortal consequence with a speed that was truly staggering, but Cassandra stood behind her decision. If nothing else, her ultimatum would put an end to his influence on the situation and force Leliana to seek more reputable options. 

Cassandra glowered down at Solas for a moment longer, watched the subtle shift in his face as he absorbed her words, as he parted out their meaning and the challenge he had to meet, and when she was certain he understood, truly understood, she turned on her heel and left. 

Her glove lay alone and forgotten on the girl's bedside.


End file.
